Love Amongst the Corpses
by The Sun In The East
Summary: Imprisoned at the Twins following the Red Wedding, Edmure cannot even look at his pretty, pregnant bride. So sweet, and his for the taking, but all he can see is corpses. But Roslin is braver than he knows, and perhaps, if they work, they can build their love stone by stone.


Author's Note: GRRM of course owns all things. Beta'd by the lovely serpentinerose.

**Love Amongst the Corpses**

Those first weeks in the Twins, Edmure almost never left his chambers. Roslin kept to her own. Demure, doe-eyed Roslin, with that sweet gap between her two front teeth, prettier then all the rest of her siblings and cousins combined and yet every time he looked at her, in her features he saw _Frey._ In the sweet tones of her voice, he heard the clamor of mercenary-minstrels (how could they not have noticed? How could they not have _known?_) Strong Northmen, his sister, his young and gallant nephew—all dead. Gods, the blood must have been a river, wide and vast as the Trident of his home.

In their marriage, she followed his lead unquestioningly. She let him alone, sleeping in her own quarters adjacent to his, giving him gentle curtsies and sweet smiles and delicate "my lords" when he passed her in the hall. Sometimes, when he woke in the night with dreams that left him gasping, he would hear soft, girlish sobs from the room beside his. On those nights, he remembered poignantly that she was only sixteen.

Sometimes he wondered, on such nights, if he should comfort her. Or... perhaps let her comfort him.

But they barely knew each other, really. They spoke at meals, sometimes. Roslin smiled prettily, laughed at his pathetic efforts at humor. He touched her hand when it was appropriate, playing her good lord husband, his heart heavy as a stone as he wondered where in that hall his family had been slaughtered.

It would be a long time until he'd be whole enough to be the husband she deserved, Edmure knew that. He also knew that Roslin was innocent;That her tears had been real, the tears of a puppet daughter sold away in carnage, with no choice in any of it.

She was a poor, sweet creature, and he knew they could do wonders to help each other but damn it, damn it all, every time he looked at her he saw his sister's body rotting in the river. Beautiful, young flesh, his for the taking, and all he could see were corpses.

* * *

In the end, it was she who came to him. He'd been there over two months.

It was early in the evening, and he was sitting on the edge of his bed, brooding at the small fire when she knocked on his door. "My lord?" she called, her tone timid.

Edmure cleared his throat and forced himself to sit up straight, dragging himself out of his miserly long enough to acknowledge her. "Yes!" he said, quickly. "I... I mean, come in, my lady. Roslin." Should he call her_ my lady_, or by her name? She always called him _lord_, but...

She opened the door and shut it behind her, curtsying without ever meeting his eyes.

"What is it?" Edmure asked, more roughly then he had perhaps intended.

"I... I only... I didn't mean to disturb you," Roslin hesitated, a tremor in her voice. Gods, was she young, Edmure thought—he expected those wide eyes would always seem childish to him. "I... thought you should know, my lord, I..." she shifted uncomfortably, wringing her hands. "I have not bled," she blurted, suddenly. "N... not since... o-our marriage. I... was told I should... inform you."

Edmure stared at her for a moment, taken aback, before he caught himself. "Why don't you... come sit with me, Roslin?" he suggested, offering her his hand. She approached him and set her thin fingers in his palm, sitting beside him. "They other women, they told you this?"

"Y-yes," Roslin murmured, her eyes fixed on the floor. "They seem... quite sure, in fact. My... my mother bore four strong boys, my lord. I h-hope I will bring you the same."

Edmure bit back a bitter reply: what was the use of sons and heirs, if this was his life? But that would frighten her, the poor skittish thing. She was just trying to be as she was taught. "I'm sure you will," Edmure said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could. "Thank you for telling me."

"Of course, My Lord," Roslin said, quickly, meeting his eyes for just an instant. "Shall... shall I... leave you, then?"

Edmure stared back at his fire and released her hand. Roslin stood, curtsied one last time, mumbled a farewell, and took her leave. Edmure sat there, staring into the flames, long after she left. Roslin was pregnant.

He would have a child.

* * *

It was late at night a few days later when Edmure heard shouting from the chambers beside his. Not Roslin, he thought. One of her half sisters, perhaps. Under the shouts, he thought he could hear soft sniffles. That, he figured, would be Roslin.

He came to her chambers the next morning, after they'd eaten breakfast.

"My lady," Edmure said, putting on his best dashing smile as she let him in. Of all the things Edmure Tully had failed at, that, at least, he had mastered. "I thought perhaps... we might talk a while. I had planned to ask you to come walk in the garden with me, but... I'm afraid I'm not allowed outside."

Roslin looked at a loss. She had been sitting with one of her sisters, sewing. The two shared a few soft words, and the sister made her exit, giving Edmure a suspicious look as she did—Edmure wondered if Roslin had been speaking poorly of him. As she left, Edmure took her place by Roslin's side, and the slight girl stilled her hands, holding the cloth in her lap. It was a light blue thing, the beginnings of a dress perhaps, but Roslin's stitches were sloppy and uneven. "It's good to see you this morning, my lord," she asked, after a moment of hesitation.

"And you, Roslin," he said, softly. "Have... you been well? Not sick, I hope?"

Roslin shook her head, laying a dainty hand on her stomach. "I... don't feel different at all, truth be told," she admitted. "But many women don't, they say," Roslin bit her lip, and then met his eyes. "Have you... have you thought about what you might name the baby?"

"Hoster for a boy, I think. For my father," Edmure said. He saw a flash of sympathy in Roslin's expression—though she had not said as much, he assumed she must've known about the death of Hoster Tully. He was her father's liege lord, after all. "For a girl..." What could he name a girl? Catelyn? No. That was too awful to even consider. Minisa? Edmure could barely remember his mother. "You... you should name her. If it's a girl."

Roslin looked at him, taken aback. "M... me, My Lord? I... she wont be named for anyone from my house, certainly," he saw her hands tighten around the cloth in her lap. "The names should be yours."

"She wouldn't have to be named after anyone at all," Edmure pointed out. "You should think about it. Just... a name you like," he smiled hesitantly at her.

For once, Roslin returned it. "I will."

"Good," he nodded, and then paused, looking away and seeking another topic of conversation. Was she always going to be so blasted timid? He found it incredibly frustrating. He wanted to know her, truly, she was to be his _wife. _In spite of everything he'd been through, he had to make this work. Edmure felt his expression sour, and he had to remind himself, for the thousandth time, that it wasn't her fault. He quickly scrambled for a new topic of conversation. "Before... before we were wed, I was told you were skilled at music," he commented.

Roslin brightened, and Edmure smiled ever so slightly in response. Finally, he'd hit on something she loved. "Yes, my lord," she affirmed. "I play the harp. And... sing, also, but perhaps not as well. Are you fond of music?"

"Truth be told, I am not," admitted Edmure.

"May I ask why?"

Edmure scratched his beard thoughtfully before answering. "I had a rather unfortunate song written about me some years back," he was surprised to find himself so willing to tell her about this—but he supposed, his whole life was shame, now. What was one more story? "I was, er, with a girl, quite drunk, and... failed to preform. Before long, they were singing about... er, floppy trouts," he said, with a nervous smile.

Edmure had expected the story might make her uncomfortable, but instead, Roslin laughed. Her laugh wasn't half as dainty as he'd expected. It was pretty, but full, and it made him feel a thousand times more comfortable. "I'm so sorry, my lord," she laughed, stifling a final giggle and covering her mouth with her hand.

"Ah, you find my shame amusing, do you?" he teased.

Roslin shook her head. "No, it is only..." she giggled girlishly, again. "Floppy trout. It's a funny metaphor."

"Well, I don't mind if you're amused," he shrugged. "Not when your laugh is so pretty." Ahh, Edmure thought, there it was: if Edmure knew one thing, it was how to woo a girl. Especially a pretty little thing like... like his wife. He took another look at her, pushing the thoughts of their disastrous wedding aside to just _look_. Her face, first: enormous brown eyes, pale pink lips... she didn't look nearly so much a Frey as he'd thought after that first night. He recalled when he'd first looked on her, and she'd been a hundred times prettier than he'd imagined and feared. He touched her shoulder, gently, pushing away the soft brown hair resting there to hang down her back. She had pale, soft skin, lightly freckled across the shoulders (though not on her face), an unblemished surface down her chest that swelled perfectly as dainty breasts vanished into her gown.

Roslin smiled, her cheeks flushing. "Per... perhaps you would like music more, if I were to... sing for you, some time."

"I should like that very much," Edmure's hand fell away from her shoulder, his fingers tracing downwards and pausing for just a moment in the small of her back before shrinking away. "Perhaps that should be our pursuit for tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow," Roslin nodded enthusiastically. "I look forward to it, My Lord."

"As do I," replied Edmure. "And, ah, one more thing, Roslin," he said, pausing in her doorway as he made his exit and turning back too look at her again. "Please, call me Edmure."

Roslin smiled at him, wider then he'd seen before. "I will."

And so, Edmure took his exit, and for the first time since their wedding night, earnestly believed that perhaps, if he could muster the strength... there could be some happiness with his pretty wife, Frey though she was.

* * *

As it was, Edmure would see Roslin again before that next day.

He was awake late in the night, staring at the ceiling with a stricken expression. He'd just woken from a dream, gasping and crying out like a child. He hated himself for it. He was Lord of Riverrun, a man grown, and no matter what he suffered, that was most important.

Whatever it even meant, now. A lord imprisoned in his bannerman's castle was no lord at all, really.

He wanted to cry out. He wanted to break, and sob, and be comforted, protected the way Catelyn had protected him when he was small.

But Edmure Tully was a man grown, broad and bearded and strong, and Catelyn was a corpse in the river.

It was then that the knock sounded at his door. Edmure sat up with a curse on his lips, running his fingers back through his hair to smooth it. "Come in," he called, his voice rough.

The door swung open, and to Edmure's utmost surprise: there stood Roslin. She was wearing only her sleeping shift, a thin white thing that fell across the slight curves of her breasts and hips just so, and just for a flash Edmure remembered her naked and open before him on their wedding night. She wore a stubborn sort of courage on her face, like she'd screwed up every ounce of bravery she had just to appear at his door. After a moment's hesitation, Edmure waved her in, and Roslin sat daintily on the side of her bed. "What brings you here, so late?"

"I... heard you," Roslin said, fixing her eyes on him. "I... thought I might... be able to help."

An unbidden wave of anger rose in Edmure. What could she do? Under that shift, her flesh was _Frey_. It was her blood that had done this to him. "I don't think you can, my lady," he said, his voice colder. Roslin winced as he spoke, her courage faltering for just a moment, but she gathered it again, and reached out to touch his cheek—the first time she'd moved to touch him since their wedding night—and Edmure jerked away from her hand.

"I can, Ed... Edmure," she insisted, stumbling _just_ a moment over his name.

"Stop that," corpses in the river, corpses in the grand hall, corpses were all he saw. "You can't. I don't care how dainty and pretty you are, or how sweetly you sing, or whatever pretty nothings they taught you here, you're a _Frey_ and you _did this to me,"_ he snapped.

And then, Edmure met another new emotion from Roslin: anger. It flashed across her face like lightning before she calmed it, gathering the rage deep inside. "I am not a Frey, my lord," she announced. "I am your lady wife, I am pregnant with your child, and by that I am a _Tully." _Edmure was taken aback, but Roslin held his gaze, fiercer then he'd ever seen her. "That is what I dreamed of, when I heard we were going to be married. I never wanted it to be this way," she continued, her voice growing gentler. "I don't know if I will ever make you happy. But I... I mean to do my best."

Edmure stared at her, stunned by this new facet of his little wife. Such pride, from the timid thing who'd cried beside him at their feast? But she hadn't cried of fear, then, had she? She had cried because she knew what was to come. And so then, when Roslin touched his cheek again, he did not tear away.

Roslin had had a very specific goal when she knocked on his door. She didn't know how to fix him, didn't know how to ease his sorrows, but she knew what her sisters and cousins had taught her about making a man happy, if only for a short time. She set her other hand against his chest, and then swung her leg to sit astride him, pushing him back against the pillows and kissing him passionately. His kiss seemed surprisingly hesitant in return, but as she shifted her hips against his pelvis she felt him _stir_, and his kiss began to push back against hers, his big hands finding her waist, her hips, her thighs. When he found the hem of her shift he pushed it upwards until his hands were on her waist again, the dress bunched up above them, smallclothes left visible beneath. She bit his lower lip lightly as she pulled away from the kiss, and he let out a soft breath thick with longing.

She gave him a slight nod, and he grabbed the fabric of her shift in his fists and lifted it off over her head, revealing her white breasts, already beginning to swell from her pregnancy. She smiled at him as he admired her, small and naked above him, and then she tugged at the fabric of his shirt and he allowed her to pull it off of him. She splayed her hands across his chest, red hair between her fingers, and then kissed him again, shifting her hips in slow circles and smiling as she felt him grow hard beneath her, his cock pressing against the laces of his pants.

This time, he broke the kiss, and she giggled as he sat up beneath her, his arms tight around her waist. He went for her breasts, then, lifting her up so she was on her knees over him and taking a hard nipple in his mouth,sucking as Roslin rested her arms about his shoulders and decorated the top of his head with gentle kisses. She nibbled his ear where it emerged from under his dark red hair and let out a soft, high noise of longing, liquid amassing at the bottom of her underpants. She wriggled out of his arms, shifting back to get her fingers around the laces of his pants, pulling them free and shoving the pants down to his calves, where he pushed them the rest of the way off with his feet.

When he was fully naked and hard before her, Roslin smiled and freed him from between her legs, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off her own underclothes, leaving her as naked as he. That done, Edmure sat up and grabbed her around the waist, tossing her back down on the bed so that he was on top of her, chestnut hair splayed out across the pillow. She giggled, again, and raised her head to kiss him with fervor, her pale skin hot and flushed beneath his touch. She nuzzled his cheek as he drew away from the kiss to sit up above her as she had him, sliding a hand up the inside of her thighs and grinning when he found her sopping beneath his touch. Roslin let out a soft gasp as he slipped a finger along the inside of her lips, and when her gasp was at its highest Edmure stopped and pressed down right on her clit. Roslin squeaked, and just as she did Edmure kissed her, again, his fingers working beneath her legs as he felt her grow tense beneath him.

She laced her arms about his neck, kissing him passionately and pausing occasionally to take soft breaths accompanied by high-pitched gasps. She could feel the pressure building inside of her just from his fingers, tension amassing in her belly, her legs, her cunt, pressure and heat building deep inside. Her legs began to squirm, bending and then straightening again, her feet flexing as she pressed her heels into the mattress. "Inside," she pleaded, nuzzling his cheek. Edmure grinned impishly at her, kissing down her neck, between her breasts, and down onto her belly, before sitting astride her again as she set her hands upon his upper thighs, and he slid inside her, shuddering as he did and feeling her shudder in return beneath him.

He loved her, gods, he loved her, loved her with each high 'ah,' she made as he thrust, loved the way she grabbed his shoulders and pressed her face into his chest before arching her back with the highest, loudest noise yet, and gods was he _alive_ with the pleasure of working his cock inside of her.

Roslin was almost desperate with need, her body so hot and tense she thought it would snap, the heat and pressure clawing up her spine and settling in her chest and when she thought she could bear it no more the floodgates burst inside of her and she cried out as the climax took her. He came inside of her shortly after, contrasting her squeaks of pleasure with a low moan.

That night, exhausted both, Roslin slept nestled in Edmure's arms for the first time. Neither dreamed, and neither cried, and for a few unconscious hours, all was well in both their worlds.

* * *

Edmure woke first, the next morning. Sometime before they had fallen asleep, Edmure had slipped back into his pants and Roslin into her shift. Her hair was disheveled across the pillow, breaths soft and even, her mouth just open enough to show the sweet gap between her front teeth. As Edmure looked at her still form beside him he only thought of death for a heartbeat before pushing it aside. Instead, he kissed her, and smiled as her eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning, Roslin," he said, softly.

A slow smile spread across Roslin's face, and she giggled and nestled close to him, tucking her head under his. "Good morning, Edmure."

He ran his fingers through his hair, undoing knots where he found them. "...thank you. For... last night," he said, softly.

Roslin pulled back enough to look up at him, smiling girlishly. "I'm your wife," she said, softly. "Besides, I..."

"You enjoyed it, too?" Edmure raised an eyebrow at her, and grinned when Roslin nodded sheepishly. "I'm glad," he looked at her a long moment, took a deep breath, and then continued with a more serious tone. "I... I should probably... apologize for how I've treated you these past months," he admitted, looking away. "You were right. What you said, last night... you are my wife, and... that makes you a Tully. I will try harder to remember that from now on," Edmure Tully knew he wasn't always the most successful of men—in fact, his endeavors seemed to end in failure far more often then not. But he could at least try, as he had in all things.

Roslin's smile widened, and she sat up, peering at him as he rolled over onto his back to look up at her with soft eyes. She ran her fingers through his dark red curls. "Thank you," she said, softly.

"You may have to be a touch patient with me, I'm afraid," he added.

Roslin laughed, softly. "I can do that. You are sweet and good and damaged, my lord, and I.. want to be there for you, Edmure, when... when you're sad. Please."

Edmure took her hand, and brought it to his lips. "I should like that very much," he breathed.

* * *

The days moved faster, then. Edmure and Roslin spent most nights together in the following weeks and most days, too—learning about each other, swapping memories and stories, embracing their new existence as husband and wife. Edmure grew more and more fond of Roslin with each day, as if the floodgates of his affection had been broken, and despite the sorrow that still sat heavy on his shoulders, Roslin made him... happy. Whatever his life was now, and wherever it was going, at least there was that. He would have Roslin, and he would have children, and well... even stripped of his honor, even failing at his duties, he was stilly a Tully, and he would have his family no matter what.

It became Edmure's custom, some nights, to brush out Roslin's hair. He liked the feel of it, long and smooth and soft in his hands, and he liked it especially when he glanced at her in the mirror and caught her staring at his reflection.

It was on one such night, as Roslin sat with her hands on the slight rise of her stomach, that she looked at his reflection and said, "I hope very much that the baby looks like you, Edmure."

"Do you? Not like their pretty mother?" he asked, with a smile.

Roslin nodded. "Yes. I want Tully red hair, at least. That would be so lovely, a gaggle of red-haired children..."  
"A gaggle?" he smirked. "My eager little lady, we're still only on the first!"

"I know. But one day we will have many, I'm entirely sure of it. Starting, I hope, with a son. An heir for house Tully," Roslin met his eyes in the reflection, but Edmure looked away, back down at her hair.

As Roslin had spoken of a son, a horrible possibility had settled in Edmure's chest. He was too much out of the action to know for sure, but... they held him hostage as the heir to Riverrun. If Roslin had a son, that was their heir: what use, then, would they have for the father? He couldn't know, truly, their plans, and he wasn't skilled enough a tactician to puzzle them out: but there the prospect stood, and Roslin sat before him oblivious and innocent of it all.

He couldn't tell her. Gods, she was so young and so precious, she couldn't know. He bent over to kiss her head, effectively hiding the pain in his features as he regained control of his emotions. "Yes," he said, softly. "An heir for house Tully... I should be just as happy for you for a girl, if you do bear one, so don't fret," he murmured. "We will have time for plenty more."

Roslin smiled as Edmure straightened again. He set down the hairbrush, and stood with his hands resting on Roslin's shoulders, looking at the two of them in the mirror. Edmure thought he looked far older then he had his wedding day, a grown man and weary of the world before his time. Beneath, Roslin was fresh and beautiful, a lady as bright as summer.

Edmure looked like Robb. Many had said it; Robb had the Tully look.

Once, Edmure had resented Robb. Two men so alike, in look at least, and Robb... Robb was the golden child, the King in the North, a nephew ten years his junior who had so utterly surpassed him. Robb his king, Robb who he had failed, Robb who would never grow to any age at all, now.

Robb had died a hero, where Edmure would live in shame."

Roslin's voice broke through his reverie, her voice turning shrill as she said his name. She had twisted in her seat to face him, and when she reached up to touch his cheek, he realized what she was reacting to: he was crying. "Edmure, my love, what's wrong?" she had taken to calling him that, recently, he'd noticed.

"Nothing, my lady," he said, quickly regaining control of himself and looking away, crossing the room to stand by the window and clear his throat. Roslin stood and followed him, peering up at him with those sweet doe eyes full of concern. She took her face in his hands and rose on tiptoe to kiss him. As she did, he laced an arm around her waist, holding tight to her as if for an anchor.

"Please talk to me," she asked, quietly, setting her hands against his chest. "Please."

Edmure shook his head, and simply clung tighter to her, bending his shoulders to hide his face in her shoulder, buried in the soft curtain of her hair. Roslin wrapped her arms about him, a hand at the back of his neck, and simply held him. She could imagine well enough what had him so suddenly unhappy.

"My poor, sweet Edmure," whispered Roslin. "How could they do this to you?" She held him for a long time, silent as he shed his tears, and when he finally calmed and released her at last, she kissed away the last of his tears, told him she loved him, and spoke no more of it.

* * *

But even if Roslin had wished to press him into opening further to her, she would not have the chance. Just a week later, he was called to leave the Twins.

Edmure said goodbye to Roslin early in the morning. They stood upon the hill outside the castle, a wide green expanse thick with mist, his horse waiting to be mounted behind him.

Ser Emmon Frey was going to lay siege to Riverrun, and Edmure was to accompany him, to be paraded before his uncle, a valuable captive to dangle over the Blackfish's head.

And his poor sweet Roslin, for all her attempts at strength, was crying in his arms.

He didn't even have any comforting lies for her.

He had only just realize how much, truly, she'd come to care for him. And he, for her.

He didn't want to leave her, his sole solace in the vast disaster of his recent existence.

"Don't cry, sweet Roslin," he whispered, pulling away from her enough to lift her face to his. He kissed her, softly, and then touched her forehead to his. "I have to go now. I know how strong you are. Let me see your strength."

Roslin bit her lip and took a deep breath, nodding weakly. "Promise me I'll see you again," she pleaded, her eyes red from weeping.

"Of course you will," he lied, feigning a sureness he did not have. He kissed her, again, and drew away, hoisting himself onto the horse, which was tied to that of Ser Danwell Frey, an older half-brother of Roslin's who sat on his horse like a sack of potatoes.

When Edmure looked back at Roslin, she seemed smaller then ever, arms wrapped around herself above her now notably swollen belly, the wind tugging at her skirts.

"Goodbye," Roslin whimpered, her voice so soft he could hardly hear it.

Edmure flashed her his best gallant smile, strong and fierce on horseback even as a hostage. "Courage, my sweet Lady. Remember your words."

Roslin smiled at him, and said, louder then: "Family, Duty, Honor."

"You are my family, Roslin, you are my duty, and you are my honor. I'll see you again soon."

And so, Edmure Tully rode for home, and Roslin Tully began her waiting.


End file.
